


Twenty Spoons

by crackleviolet



Series: Violets are Blue [17]
Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, dad!V
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 13:09:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11829396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackleviolet/pseuds/crackleviolet
Summary: MC x V | No warnings really apply unless you count Rika | 791 wordsA fic about twenty spoons and a small child who may or may not be V's son





	Twenty Spoons

When V moved into his apartment, he had five boxes to his name.

To be more specific, five boxes and twenty spoons.

Rika had scoffed as he carefully arranged each one in their very first kitchen drawer, counting them out so they divided equally.

“Who is going to use all of these spoons?”

And he supposed she had a point. Only the two of them lived there and their friends visited only occasionally. Even so, he shrugged nonchalantly at the time.

“Perhaps I’ll have a dinner party and serve everyone souffle. Then you’ll be sorry.”

“We don’t even know twenty people.”

“Someday we might!”

The moment it crossed his lips, he knew it was a mistake. Where he meant sticky fingers, toothy grins and a full house, she meant casual acquaintances. He did not bother to correct her, though. Instead he laughed off the sentiment and turned the spoon in his grip.

Those spoons once belonged to a distant aunt, though how distant he had never known exactly. He did know that for much of his childhood they collected dust in a small box at the back of an attic drawer until the day he came to inherit them.

Similarly, on that first day that he moved into his apartment, he chanced a side glance at Rika before counting out only the necessary number and boxing up the rest. She was right, after all. Twenty was too many. Even so, he often found himself running his fingers along their individual grooves and imperfections, imagining the hubbub of family dinners that ultimately never arrived.

Long after she left and his eyes began to fail, he found himself focusing on them more than ever; retracing every regret and word unspoken like he did the metal. Once, he imagined laughter and rooms full of people to cheer himself up on lonely nights. One day it would be better; everyone would smile again and no one would hurt anymore. After it all fell apart, though, he could scarcely stand to think of such things. When he thought of laughter, it was as if it came at his own expense.

He waited three years to unpack them at his new house by the cherry farm; a fact that made very little in the way of sense to anyone, for he had always been the one to suggest they hold so many dinner parties. He had insisted on their overly large dining room table, which could easily seat half a dozen people.

For three years he barely looked at them, and when he did he found that he no longer recalled any of the flaws he once committed to memory. When he reached for them this time, he had yogurt smothered across his front and laughter in his eyes as he took in the state of his son.

At eight months old, Taehyun was old enough to not only conclude he had no taste for yogurt but was more than willing to protest anyone’s attempts to feed it to him. More often than not, both he and whichever unfortunate soul stood by him with the spoon ended up completely covered and in need of a change of clothes.

On this occasion, he had yogurt in his hair and Jihyun laughed as he lifted him into his arms.

“Your mother,” he said, “will either find this deeply hilarious or have a stroke.”

Taehyun did not understand his words, but he smiled a toothy grin and gurgled something in the sort of infant speak that Jihyun usually liked to pretend was eloquent.

“Now then,” he said, reaching for the spoon, “let’s…”

He did know what it was about the sight of the yogurt coated spoon on the kitchen counter that left him considering a conversation in a different kitchen about a souffle, much less why it brought a smile to his face.

Once, not so long ago, he had taken comfort in the fact that one day he might know twenty people, as if it measured up to the thing he really wanted all along. And in the end, Rika had been right, for at most he knew fifteen. Now that she was gone, however, he found himself taking comfort in the instances she was wrong. His new home by the cherry farm; each and every photograph on the wall. He took comfort in his son’s eyes, which were bright and curious and an identical shade to his own.

His son’s eyes were pure, innocent and unblemished and when he looked into them, he momentarily forgot golden hair and sharp fingers. 

And as he picked up the spoon, only to laugh as Taehyun smacked it away again, he could not help but feel that that was no bad thing.


End file.
